


Managing

by ImBadWithWords



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImBadWithWords/pseuds/ImBadWithWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker is a mess. Clint Barton is too, but that doesn't mean he won't try to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Managing

**Author's Note:**

> From magic-is-real-sometimes (a literal gem) on tumblr: clint talking with peter about how to stay on top of the whole superhero thing, (not exactly like mentor student, more like big bro type thing? they're both disasters i feel like they would relate.)
> 
> Just as a heads up, the third scene (right after Peter and Sam's extra cheese debate) contains descriptions of a messy injury and stitching up said injury.

Peter rushed through the communal kitchen early one morning, hurrying to avoid missing his train and being late for school. He pulled open a few cupboard doors, shutting them after only quick looks inside. Peter was familiar with where everything was—his overnight visits to the Tower becoming more and more frequent since his aunt had found out his identity—but there wasn’t any food he could take with him. The fruit bowl on the counter stood empty as well. With a sigh, Peter prepared to leave without eating.

“The point of raiding the kitchen is to actually take food, y’know.”

Peter startled. He turned around and saw Clint leaning on the island separating the kitchen from the living room.

“Dude, you scared me,” Peter said. “I’m gonna get you a bell. Why are you even up so early? You usually sleep until, like, noon.” He made to leave the kitchen and head for the exit, picking up his backpack from against the wall and slinging it over his shoulder, but Clint stood in his way.

“I’m starving,” the older man said. “Came back from a mission yesterday afternoon and went straight to bed.” He yawned, pushing past Peter to get to the fridge. He opened the door and pulled out a clear bottle filled with a thick, oatmeal-colored smoothie. After taking a drink, he offered another one to Peter.

“That looks gross,” Peter intoned.

“It tastes fine,” Clint told him, “but what’s more important is it’s, like, a super-protein shake. Enough calories and whatever to replace two meals.” He held the unopened bottle out to Peter again. “Perfect for people with enhanced metabolisms.”

The teenager took it warily. He slipped it into the side pocket of his bag.

“ _Mister Parker, you’re going to miss your train if you don’t leave pretty soon.”_

“Oh, crap! Thanks, FRIDAY!” Peter called toward the ceiling, making a beeline toward the elevator. “Thanks, Clint!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t go falling asleep in class again.” Clint yawned and waved as the elevator doors slid shut. He took his smoothie in hand, heading back toward his rooms for another few hours’ sleep.

 

____________

 

 

“I am going to throw you off this goddamned tower, you little punk!” Clint shoved Peter with his shoulder and the younger man cackled as he nearly fell to the floor. He held his controller high above his head as Clint tried knock it out of his hands.

“Give it up, Legolas!” Peter yelled, eyes focused intently on the TV, grin threatening to split his face. “You’ve never beaten me at Mario Kart before and it’s not happening today!” Clint groaned in despair as he slipped on a banana peel and fell even further behind. He spared a glance for Natasha standing at the edge of the carpet. Her arms were folded across her chest and her gaze was on Peter, eyes soft.

Peter cheered as his character—Waluigi, because he always was—crossed the finish line. In first. Because he always was. He jumped to his feet to do a victory dance for Clint’s benefit. The archer shared an exasperated look with Nat before heaving a sigh.

“Fine, fine, I admit defeat,” he said. Clint took a swig of the soda left open on the table. “You come to rub it in, Romanoff?” Nat smiled and patted his arm.

“I’m sure you already know how bad you are, Clint,” she said. He offered an exaggerated pout before she turned her attention to Peter. “Tony’s ordering pizza. If you can stay for dinner, you should go tell him what you want.”

“Yeah, I can stay,” Peter responded. “Aunt May’s having dinner at a friend’s house anyway.” He left in the direction of the communal kitchen, the most likely place to find the inventor if he was arguing with Steve over pizza toppings, which was probably the case. Both former spies watched him go.

“You’re really good with him,” said Nat, settling on the couch next to Clint. She tucked her feet under her and rested her arm on the back of the sofa. Clint shrugged.

“Kid just needs to stop thinking so much, sometimes.”

“But you’re the only one who can help him do that,” Nat insisted. She held up finger when he tried to argue. “It’s true, Clint. He burst through here a couple hours ago after seeing whatever crap Jameson was saying about him on the news and he wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even Tony. Then you come along and coax him out of his room and the next thing you know he’s back to being Peter.”

Clint shook his head. “Nah, it’s not me, not really. The kid’s working on how to manage all of—“ he waved his hand vaguely in the air, “— _this_ , and he just needs a bit of a push sometimes.”

Natasha rose and pulled Clint up with her, lips quirked just the tiniest bit. “Well then you’re very good at pushing him.”

They joined the rest of the team in the kitchen, where Peter and Sam were debating the merits of extra cheese.

 

____________

 

 

Peter held the needle in bloody, slippery fingers, pinching the wound shut with his other hand. The gash along his side was deep and the knife it had been inflicted with had maybe been just a little rusted. All in all, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

But the Tower’s medbay was full to overflowing with medical supplies, a fact that had saved Peter’s ass more than once. He had all but crashed in, vision swimming from a probable concussion after being tag-teamed by a lady with a crowbar and a dude with a knife that was about two inches short of being a machete.

He splashed peroxide on a cotton pad and cleaned the wound in quick, short strokes. Breath held to quiet any noise of pain, he wiped away the blood as best he could, but mostly just spread it around. His skin sizzled and his shoulders tightened.

Peter grimaced as he started the first stitch. He made a small noise of despair as a drop of blood slid down his torso and fell to the white tiled floor next to his discarded mask. Great. Now he would have to clean that up too.

Blood continued to well from the slash. It made holding his split skin together difficult, but Peter was nothing if not persistent. A minute later he was about half-way done stitching, only another two and a half inches stretching out before him. After this he would be able to go relax with the rest of the team. Maybe they would order pizza. Or something from that new Thai place Steve had mentioned. God, he was starving.

The door to the medbay opened.

Clint strolled in, one hand held gingerly to the top of his head, face contorted in a wince. He didn’t even notice Peter, instead stooping down to open the freezer next to the entrance to retrieve an icepack. Straightening, his eyes fell on Peter.

“Jesus, what the—“ the archer stammered. He lowered the ice and stalked to the counter Peter was sitting on.

“Yeah, I got into a little trouble with these muggers,” Peter admitted, face heating up. “I think the girl might have been enhanced, because _wow_ did she have a swing…” He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly.

“Why the hell didn’t you call any of us?” Clint demanded, grabbing a large, clean bandage from next to Peter and pressing it against the boy’s side. “Put pressure here.” Bewildered, Peter held his left hand over the injury, the other still holding the needle.

“I-I mean it’s not a big deal…”

“Just hold off for a second, kid, let me deal with this.” The older man opened a cabinet, then another, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Where the shit is the peroxide gone?”

“Um.” Peter held up the bottle. Clint nabbed a few cotton pads from the pile Peter had taken from one of the drawers and poured out the disinfectant.

“Okay, lift the bandage,” he ordered. Peter did as told, feeling like an idiot for getting himself hurt in the first place.

“Yeah, this looks pretty dee—“ Clint started. His gaze flicked up to Peter’s face. “Did you already start stitching this? And you cleaned it with peroxide?”

“Yes?” Peter answered. “Was that— is that not what you’re supposed to do for this kind of cut? Tha-That’s just what I usually do when I’m at home, y’know, I didn’t think that maybe you’re supposed to be doing this some other way. I don’t have, like, liquid stitches or anything, partly because I don’t know how to use them but mostly ‘cause they get expensive and I— um. Tony said it’s okay if I use this stuff to get patched up but maybe I misinterpreted…?”

There was a following silence in which Peter did his best to melt into the floor. Clint’s eyes kept moving from Peter’s worried expression to the gash marring his side.

“Are you saying you give yourself stitches on a regular basis?”

“Regular-ish? Once or twice every couple weeks? I really don’t get what…”

Clint scrubbed an hand over his face. “Oh boy. Ohhhh boy. Okay, look, kid. If you get stabbed, that’s something you should probably tell us. The only one of us who can walk that off is Hulk, and maybe Thor, but neither of them count, so don’t try.” Peter went to open his mouth but Clint plowed on. 

“And I feel like I should clarify, because you’re the kind of stubborn ass who loves loopholes, that getting shot, maimed, concussed, or—Christ, I don’t even know, what the hell kind of stuff are you always getting into, Parker— _thrown through a building_ or something, that’s all stuff you should tell us about. We’re your team, we want to look out for you, and that means making sure you’re not heading home a bloody mess. Mostly because your aunt is scary when she’s mad and we don’t want to get on her bad side.”

Confusion wormed its way onto Peter’s face.

“Getting a little banged up is part of the job,” he insisted, “and the rest of you don’t need to be monitored, so what’s the difference? I mean, I know I mess up a lot and that leads to stuff like—“ He gestured to the wound in his side. “—but I really don’t need to be babied, okay?”

“This isn’t babying, kid,” Clint argued, immediately aware of his poor choice of words. “We all get the same treatment. One of us gets hurt, the rest look out for them. That’s part of the whole team thing.”

“But no one else get injured all the time like I do!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his arms up. He gasped as a sharp pain shot through his side and Clint gently took his wrists and lowered his hands. Peter ducked his head, cheeks red. Clint sighed.

“Look, Peter,” he said, pulling back the teenager’s attention. “We all get injured. We all get injured a _lot,_ actually. We just—“ He pressed his lips into a hard line. “We agreed not to tell you when we get hurt. I don’t know, we thought it would freak you out or something and you didn’t need that. We never imagined you were getting it just as bad.” He looked at the injury again, exhaling sharply. “Or worse, jeez, if this is normal for you.”

“I heal fast,” Peter said, trying to brush off Clint’s concern. Blood continued to dribble down his side and Peter dabbed at it with the bandage in his hand. “This’ll be gone by Tuesday and there won’t even be a scar if you let me finish with the stitches.”

“It worries me that you know that,” the archer commented as he took the strip of cotton from Peter. After setting it down on the counter he took the needle from Peter’s red-stained fingers. “I’ll finish this up. Lay down on your back.”

Peter swung his legs up onto the counter-top, tilting his face toward the ceiling to hide his wince. The surface was cold against his exposed back as he settled down. Clint got to work quickly and Peter was just a little proud that he didn’t so much as twitch until he tied off the thread.

“Alright, all done,” Clint said, sliding an arm under the teenager’s shoulders to leverage him up. Peter held a clean bandage against the injury as Clint taped it in place. 

“Thanks, Clint.” Peter tugged his sweater over his head, having to slow when he pushed his arms through.

“Any time, kiddo,” came the response. Peter looked up as Clint dropped a firm hand on his shoulder. “I’m serious about that. _Any_ time you get an injury like that, you should ask me or one of the others to check it out, okay?”

Peter swallowed and nodded. He hopped off the counter and made to clean up the blood and bandages strewn around them but Clint waved him off.

“You go on and catch up with rest of ‘em. I’ve got this.” Clint offered a smile and made shooing motions with his hands when Peter hesitated.

When the kid was out of sight, Clint leaned against the counter and sighed. “Hey, FRIDAY? Do me a favor and tell me the next time Spider-Boy comes in here bleeding, alright?”

“ _Certainly, Agent Barton.”_

 

____________

 

 

“Don’t even think about getting up off that couch, Parker.”

Peter looked up at Clint through his lashes, eyes big and sad-looking.

“Clinnnnnnnt,” he whined.

“Nuh-uh, not happening.” The older man threw a pillow at Peter’s head. The kid’s reaction was sluggish and it hit him full in the face, pushing his expression into an even more exaggerated pout. “May asked us to look out for you until she got back in town. It’s not my fault you went and got sick.”

“Why do I have to stay _here?_ ” Peter complained. “My apartment’s perfectly fine.”

“Because FRIDAY is better at making sure you don’t die than anyone else in this tower.”

Pulling his feet under him, Peter buried his head in the mound of cushions someone had decided he needed. He sniffled.

“It’s the flu, not the Black Plague.”

“We are not taking any chances of facing May’s wrath. It’s already dark, there’s no harm in you staying the night.” Clint wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “Besides, you can’t sneak out for patrol if there’re cameras everywhere.”

“I wasn’t gonna sneak out,” Peter grumbled. He accepted the water when Clint held it out. He took a sip then held the cold bottle against his neck, sighing in contentment at the chill. Clint frowned.

“You feeling hot?”

“I’m always hot,” he responded, wigging his eyebrows. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face. He kicked his feet out from under the Hulk-themed blanket Tony had procured from somewhere. Clint rolled his eyes and held the back of his hand against Peter’s forehead.

“Pretty sure you can’t take a temperature that way, Clint.”

“Shut up, punk.” He sighed and pulled his hand back. “FRIDAY, what’s Peter’s temperature?”

_“101.3° fahrenheit, Agent Barton.”_

“Alright. Let me know if it goes up.”

_“Can do.”_

“You’re overreacting,” Peter insisted. He tried to push himself upright, but instead slumped against the arm of the sofa. “I’m just a little tired,” he said, voice breathy. “I’m still good to go.”

“Sure you are, kid,” said Clint. He dropped into one of the armchairs across from the couch. “I don’t know if you want to take medicine or whatever. I don’t actually know what the hell I’d give you. Bruce left with the others for the mission, so I can’t even ask him.”

“Probably wouldn’t do anything anyway,” Peter sighed. His eyelids were drooping.

“You get some sleep, I’ll wake you up if the team calls.” Clint put his feet up on the coffee table as Peter settled deeper into his pillow mountain. His gentle snores were quick to be heard. A smile quirked Clint’s lips. Pretty soon he was dreaming too.

When Clint woke up next it must have been several hours later, judging by the view of the city through the windows. Sleep weighed down his eyelids and Clint raised his hand to rub at his face. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the empty couch.

Something buzzed in his pocket. It must have woken him up. He scrambled to pull out his phone and the name _Loudmouth Jr._ flashed across the screen.

“Peter?” he said as answered it.

_“Clint? Uh, remember how I said I wasn’t going to sneak out?”_

Clint groaned. “Are you serious right now, kid?”

_“I know…”_ Peter’s voice trailed off. Clint realized he didn’t sound quite right. Muffled, almost slurred.

“Are you okay, Peter?” he asked, concern propelling him to his feet. He scanned the room for his bow, finding it next to the TV.

_“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, just…”_ A pause. _“I maybe can’t swing back to the Tower.”_

“Okay, just tell me where you are, I’ll pick you up.” Clint slung his weapon over his shoulder, stalking to the kitchen and picking up the keys to his truck from the island.

_“Somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen, I think. I… I’m not sure. I’m on a rooftop. Three stories? Some sort of bakery, I think.”_

“Alright, just hang tight, kiddo. I bet I know the place you’re talking about. I’ll be there in a minute.” He hung up as he got in the elevator.

Clint’s fingers were tight around the steering wheel as he drove through Hell’s Kitchen. The place Pete had been describing was probably an old cake shop smack-dab in the middle of Daredevil’s territory. It was the only multi-story bakery Clint knew in the area, and the giant cookie with a face on the sign was probably the only thing Peter was really registering in whatever state he was in.

Sure enough, as he got closer Clint could see the light from the street lamps glint off thin strands of webbing on certain buildings. He cut the truck’s engine outside the bakery, double parking because no way was he taking the time to find an empty spot. A fire escape led to the roof and Clint climbed easily, keeping an eye out for anyone in the vicinity, thankfully finding no one.

“Peter?” he called, voice low.

“Over here,” came the response. Clint jogged to the other side of the roof and found a red-and-blue form sitting on the ground, leaning against a pile of wooden crates. He dropped to his knees in front of Peter, eyes scanning him over for injuries.

“You hurt, kid?”

“No, ‘m fine,” Peter mumbled. Clint hooked his thumbs under Peter’s mask and peeled it off. The kid’s sweaty hair was plastered to his head and his eyes took a little too long to focus.

“How sure are you about that? You’re looking a little peaky.” As he spoke, Clint pressed his fingers lightly against the back of Peter’s head, checking for a bump that would indicate a head injury. Peter wriggled away from his touch.

“Really, Clint, I’m not hurt. I didn’t even get to do anything,” he said. He pursed his lips and looked down at his lap. He absently rubbed at his chest. “Fifteen minutes into patrol I see this car-jacker, I drop down to stop him. Then I threw up. Not fun.”

Clint couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s what you get for sneaking out, punk.” He took Peter under the arms and hauled him to his feet. Peter swayed, but managed to stand on his own.

“Yeah, probably,” the teenager said. He rubbed his eyes. “I’m gonna go home and sleep for like, nineteen hours.”

“That sounds like a plan, kid.”

 

____________

 

 

Peter didn’t land on the launch pad outside the Tower so much as crash. His feet slammed into the concrete and he dropped to one knee, an outstretched hand stopping his fall. He exhaled, hot breath pushing past his lips, misting in the cold air.

His knee stung, but he ignored it. His whole body ached, actually, especially his leg where the Goblin had raked him with his claws two days earlier. God, it was all so stupid. Stupid Goblin, stupid leg, stupid _Peter_. There was a woman fighting for her life in a hospital OR because he hadn’t been fast enough tonight.

Peter rose to his feet. As he walked inside the night played through his mind. It had been an armed robbery, a normal goddamn armed robbery with some idiot in a ski mask waving a gun. You couldn’t get more textbook. 

He dropped down on his favorite couch in the common room, one that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows and was big enough for at least five Avengers. The New York City skyline stared back at him, a faint glow in the unlit room. Squares of light outlined the shape of countless city blocks, streets Peter could swing through with his eyes closed.

_“Welcome to the Tower, Mister Parker,”_ FRIDAY said. _“Everyone else is currently asleep. D’ya want me to turn the lights to half-power?”_

“No, that’s fine. I’m— I’m just going to bed,” Peter responded.

He should get something to eat, he knew he should, he hadn’t had anything except half a bowl of cereal that morning, but his stomach was churning and he was so tired and he just wanted the day to be _over._ Peter tugged off his mask, throwing it on the coffee table. It slid off the surface and fell to the floor.

Whatever. He could get it in the morning. He had already told Aunt May he would be spending the night at the Tower. Her answering _“Ok! Love u!”_ had made his heart twist.

Peter stumbled into his own room in the Tower. Despite his exhaustion, he changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants instead of just falling into bed. He kicked his Spider-Man suit under the bed, glad to be out of it.

After taking one look at the bed—three times larger than the one he had at home and overflowing with pillows—Peter wandered back out to the common room. He took a blanket from the back of one of the other couches, draping it around his shoulders like a cape, and collapsed on the sofa. He laid on his back, sinking into the cushions.

Peter closed his eyes. The Tower was so quiet; even the bustle outside was only a faint hum in the background.

He should have been faster. He should have clocked the gun, started moving before the robber had even started to raise his weapon. He should have been in front of the woman long before the trigger was pulled.

Her blood had been everywhere. Metallic, slippery red staining her clothes, the floor, Peter’s hands. Her eyes were wide in pain and fear, her mouth open, floundering for breath. He had knelt over her, unable to stop the shaking in his limbs that threatened to undo him as he pressed frantic hands against the hole in her abdomen, a sight too horrific, too familiar. She had clung to Peter’s suit, begging with her gaze to _do something_ , to _save her—_

Peter flinched, dragging in a ragged breath. He sucked in lungfuls of air but he couldn’t make a dent in the hollow ache in his stomach. He sat up. Head in his hands, elbows on his knees, he resisted the urge to cry. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry. Superheroes didn’t cry.

_“Mister Parker, you seem like you might need someone,”_ FRIDAY said softly. Peter startled.

“No,” he rasped, “I-I’m okay. Just— don’t tell anyone, FRIDAY. Please.”

_“Whatever you say,”_ the AI responded and God, if that didn’t sound like pity in her voice.

The lights of the city spilled into the common room, washing over Peter’s hunched frame. He rose on shaky feet, his injured leg protesting the movement. The elevator doors slid open as he approached them and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the training room. The ride down was silent; he had long pestered Tony about putting music in the elevator, but he was glad now the inventor had never listened.

Peter stepped into the gym and headed for the indoor track. It looped around the entire room, around the sparring mats and work out machines. Peter took a deep breath and started running.

Peter sprinted, pushing his arms and legs as fast as he could, head down, eyes focused on the next stride and _only_ the next stride. Peter ran, ran as hard as could, taking lap after lap around the track, his socked feet hitting the rubber floor over and over and over again until the motion was all Peter could think about. His hurt leg screamed and his lungs burned. But he didn’t stop. Sweat began to pour down his face around the thirtieth lap, stinging his eyes. He didn’t care. He ran harder.

Eventually the pain in Peter’s leg became too much. He slowed, coming to a stop and rubbing a hand over the injury.

“What, you training for a half marathon?”

Peter glanced around for the source of the voice and saw Clint leaning on the wall near the elevator. He dropped his eyes, shook his head, but otherwise didn’t answer.

“C’mon, kid, it’s nearly four in the morning,” said Clint. “You’ve got school tomorrow. You should sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said, turning around, prepared to start again.

“Bullshit,” said Clint. Peter spun slowly to face the older man.Tension crept into his shoulders.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Clint said. “Bull. Shit.”

Peter laughed, no humor in the sound. “Tell me what you really think, Clint.”

“Alright then.” Clint pushed himself away from the wall. He stalked over to Peter, getting in his personal space. “You’re acting like an idiot.”

“Really? I thought that was your job,” said Peter, knowing full well the remark was childish.

“Oh sure, it is, when I don’t have to babysit stubborn teenagers who refuse to take care of themselves.”

Peter scowled. “I take care of myself just fine, Clint. Now would you leave me alone?”

“Not a chance. You’re going to bed.” Clint grabbed Peter’s arm, prepared to drag him back to the elevator, but Peter ripped himself from the grip.

“Stop treating me like a kid!” Peter snapped, voice just a shade below a yell.

“Well one of us has gotta be the grown-up, don’t they?” Clint returned. Any hint of teasing was gone; Clint looked pissed.

“What the hell is your problem?” grumbled Peter. He turned away, moving toward the bench press. He sat down, eyes on the floor.

“My problem,” Clint said, “is that you’re wearing yourself down and you don’t seem to _care_.” He stood in front of the teen, arms crossed. “Your grades are slipping, you’re constantly getting injured, you never eat enough, and you barely sleep. That is an _issue_ , Peter. One that you’re letting get worse and worse.”

“I’m not just letting this happen,” said Peter, finally lifting his head. Even in the dim light of the gym the circles under his eyes were prominent. “I just— I don’t know, I’ve just got a lot going on, okay? I’m managing.”

“Except you’re not, kid.” Clint unfolded his arms. They fell loose at his sides. “This—“ He gestured at all of Peter and then the gym. “—is not managing. Hell, this is making things worse. And I know this superhero shit isn’t easy, alright? I get it. But—“

“You don’t, Clint,” Peter interrupted. The older man moved to argue but Peter pushed on. “Our situations aren’t the same. I’m doing the best I can, I swear to God I am, but I can’t be 100% on top of it 100% of the time.”

“No one’s saying you have to be,” Clint said. “But that’s not the point, Pete. You’re saying you’re doing your best, but that involves taking breaks, actually taking off the suit every once in a while. You don’t do that, you _won’t_ do that. And what we do, what we see while we’re in uniform, that’s universal. It drives us all into the ground, but you’re the only one digging your own grave.”

“So what?” Every muscle in Peter’s body was tense. His lips were pressed into a hard line; his knuckles were white. “You want me inside watching Netflix while people are out there getting hurt? Getting killed?”

Peter took a deep breath, grounding himself. “If patrolling one more block, staying out one more hour, means someone else gets to go home safe, how is it not my responsibility to try?”

Clint dropped down on the bench and tried not to let his anger bleed into his posture any more than it already had. His hands were in fists on his knees. “So this is about saving as many people as you can, huh?”

Peter glanced at him. He dropped his head again and nodded. “Of course.”

“What happens when you die?”

Peter scrunched his eyebrows together. “Don’t you mean ‘if?’”

“Not with the way you’re going,” Clint said, his smile empty. “Nope, smart money’s on you biting the bullet before your next birthday. Maybe it’ll be because you’re sick and your reaction time is slowed, or you haven’t eaten and you’re not at full strength. My bet is you’re sleep-deprived and unable to concentrate, but hey, pick your poison.”

Peter had hunched in on himself. His hands were clasped tightly together and his breathing was too controlled to be subconscious. Clint continued:

“So then you’re dead and buried and there’s no Spidey patrolling the streets. Crime surges, robberies rise, muggings just _skyrocket_. I mean, police are doing everything they can to keep up, but they don’t have the same street cred' as you. It’s messy.”

“Yeah, I’ll just let crimes happen now so they don’t happen in the future, that’s real smart thinking, Clint,” Peter spat. He shoved himself to his feet, spinning to face Clint, hands bunched in the hem of his shirt. His voice was pleading. “I don’t get to pick and choose! I can’t decide that anyone I might help tonight is less important than anyone I might help next week! That’s not how this works!”

“Tell me how it works then!” Clint shouted back. “Tell me why the hell you have to sacrifice yourself for this!”

“This isn’t— I’m not _sacrificing_ myself, what the hell, Clint, I’m just—“ Peter buried his face in his hands. “I-I-I can’t not help. I have seen what happens if I just stand by, okay? I can’t make anyone else go through that.”

“You’re not making anyone go through anything!” Clint yelled. He paused, shook his head, kept his voice level. “Jesus Christ, kid, would you get your head out of your ass? It’s— You can’t blame yourself for what other people choose to do.”

“And you can’t ask me to turn away when people might need me!” Peter cried. He raked his hands through his hair, tugging hard. The low lights threw shadows across his face. Somehow he looked even younger.

“I’m not saying that, Peter!” Clint visibly tried to lower his voice. “You need to find a better way of doing this. You need to find some sort of balance—“

_“Balance?”_ Peter interrupted, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?” He laughed, the sound too high and unsteady. “Do you really think I can just keep my two identities separate? I still have Spanish tests while on patrol. My ribs aren’t magically unbroken when I go to school. I have to look over my shoulder even out of costume in case someone’s figured out my identity. It’s all fine and dandy for you guys, you get shot or stabbed or attacked by giant killer bees or whatever the hell else and you— you can take the next day off! _I can’t.”_

Peter laughed again, bitter and low. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. When his eyes met Clint’s, the older man saw they were red-rimmed. 

“I’ve seen people die, Clint.” His voice was hoarse. “Sometimes I have nightmares. About all the people I couldn’t save.” Peter swallowed hard. “And when I wake up, I still see their faces. When I look at my friends, at my teachers. At my aunt. And I can’t tell anyone.”

“Peter…” Clint breathed. He stood, waking over to the teen in quick strides, and pulled him into a fierce hug.

Peter tensed at the contact, but then the fight leeched out of him. He pressed his face into Clint’s neck, struggling to control his hitched breathing. Clint rubbed slow circles into the boy’s back. Peter wrapped his arms around Clint’s middle. He held tight.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Clint soothed. He pressed his cheek against Peter’s mess of hair. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. You didn’t need that.” He sighed. “I know that what you do as Spider-Man is important to you. It’s important to this city too. The world would be a better place if we could have a couple more people like you.

“But you deserve to be a kid,” Clint continued. “You deserve to feel safe. You deserve to just let yourself be selfish and stupid and happy when you need it. And I know that the life you lead, that you _choose_ to lead because you’re stronger and braver and more selfless than any adult I’ve ever met, makes being those things difficult. But we all want to help you, okay? We want to help you get to a place where you can choose to be a kid and still choose to be a hero.”

Peter said nothing, just sniffled and hung onto Clint’s shirt. He accepted the comfort. 

He let Clint lead him away from the gym, into the elevator and back up to the common room. Clint deposited him on Peter’s favorite couch, draping the blanket around his shoulders. He made two cups of hot chocolate in the kitchen and pushed a warm mug into Peter’s hand. Clint chattered absently. His soft voice filled the dark night. Peter’s eyes drooped as he listened to the other man’s story about crawling through vents to avoid someone named Coulson. Clint caught his cup as it nearly tumbled out of his hand, the boy’s face softened in sleep. He patted Peter’s hair as he walked back to the kitchen and left the mugs in the sink.


End file.
